Dorcas frowned. ‘What sort of treatment is Mrs Rossiter getting?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘You hear such frightening stories about the asylum,’ she said, worriedly. ‘There’s talk of patients being put in a straitjacket, or plunged into a cold bath, or locked up all the time in the dark. You don’t know what to believe.’
‘Dr Swift will prescribe the appropriate treatment,’ he said, ‘and I doubt very much if it will involve any of the things you’ve just mentioned. Rumours of that kind are usually misleading. Mrs Rossiter is being cared for, Miss Hope. Her recovery is in hand. And don’t forget what I told you about the chaplain,’ he added with a note of reassurance. ‘He’ll provide Mrs Rossiter with healing of a different kind.’
‘How is the poor creature?’ asked Bishop Phillpotts.
‘Mrs Rossiter is like all the patients when they first come here,’ replied Canon Smalley. ‘She’s utterly bewildered. Until one gets used to it, this can be a rather frightening environment.’
‘That’s unavoidable. It is, after all, a place of detention.’
‘And it’s run on the twin principles of hard work and strict discipline. I’ve no objection to the hard work. It keeps the patients occupied and gives them a sense of achievement. Where discipline is concerned, mind you, I do sometimes feel that it’s taken to extreme and inhumane limits.’
‘That’s outside your remit, Canon Smalley.’
‘I’ve had to accept that.’
‘Dr Swift knows what he’s doing.’
‘I mean no criticism of him, Bishop.’
Henry Phillpotts was not often subject to remorse but his conscience could be pricked on occasion. Having written to the chaplain to draw Agnes Rossiter to his attention, he felt that he had not done enough to atone for his earlier condemnation of the woman. As a result, he decided to pay an unheralded visit to the asylum. He and Canon Smalley were talking in the little room that the chaplain used as his office. There was a crucifix on the wall and a Holy Bible on the desk beside a pile of religious tracts. In stark contrast to the luxury of the bishop’s palace, the room had a decidedly Spartan feel to it.
‘I’m full of admiration for the work you do here,’ said the bishop.
‘I don’t think of it as work. It’s something I was called to do and I was happy to answer the call. I share my life with people in desperate need of my help.’
‘Yet it does cut you off from the outside world.’
Smalley smiled. ‘That’s a cause for celebration rather than regret.’
‘You’ve missed all the excitement of a murder investigation.’
‘It’s not been very exciting for Agnes Rossiter, I’m afraid. She’s been one of the victims of the crime. She talks of it incessantly.’
‘Then you may be able to cheer her up,’ said the other. ‘Inform her that the killer has been arrested and will go to trial. His name is Browne and he had the gross impertinence to threaten me in an indirect way. For some unknown reason, Inspector Colbeck, who is now in charge of the case, casts doubt on Browne’s guilt, yet it’s incontestable. He murdered the stationmaster elsewhere, then hid the body under the bonfire in the cathedral precincts as a brazen taunt at me.’
‘I’ll pass on the news to Mrs Rossiter.’
‘Do that. Has she shown any sign of contrition?’
‘Not as yet, Bishop.’
‘There’s been no apology for her antics in the cathedral?’
‘Her belief in the existence of God has been seriously undermined.’
‘Then it must be restored,’ said Bishop Phillpotts. ‘It’s an important factor in her recovery. Don’t you agree?’
‘I do,’ said Smalley, ‘but it’s something that will take time and patience. I’ll do whatever I can for Mrs Rossiter, but please bear in mind that I have many others in need of my help. There’s another recent arrival here, for instance, who’s in dire straits. In addition to her other problems, the girl is deaf and dumb.’
‘What dreadful handicaps to suffer!’
‘There are others here with equally bad disabilities. Mrs Rossiter, on the other hand, is a relatively healthy woman. It’s only her mental health that causes alarm.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Bishop Phillpotts, meaningfully, ‘I wish you to keep a particular eye on her. You’ll oblige me by doing so.’
‘I’ll obey your instruction, Bishop.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘If you’re ready to leave, I’ll walk with you to the main exit.’
‘Thank you. I’d like to take a closer look at the paintings.’
They left the room and ambled along the corridor so that the bishop could study some of the paintings he’d donated to the asylum. They consisted very largely of landscapes and seascapes, designed to please and soothe. There was no hint of violence or drama in any of the art. When they reached the end of the corridor, they turned at a right angle into another longer one. Bishop Phillpotts immediately stopped to examine a painting of Dawlish, but Smalley’s attention was fixed on the three people walking towards him. One of them was Dr Swift and the other was a nurse. Between them was the slim figure of Esther Leete, no longer restrained in a straitjacket and no longer exuding a sense of danger. As she gazed around, her face had a bewildered loveliness. Canon Smalley was amazed at the transformation.
Colbeck had to delay his conversation with Woodford until three trains had come and gone. The platform at St David’s was awash with people for what seemed like an age. When the last train had departed and the passengers had vanished, Colbeck saw the stationmaster trying to sneak off into the ticket office. He quickly intercepted him.
‘Good morning, Mr Woodford,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ replied the other, uneasily, ‘good morning to you, Inspector.’
‘I wondered if I might have a word.’
‘I am rather busy at the moment.’
‘This won’t take long,’ said Colbeck. ‘It concerns the diary.’
‘I’m told that it’s been found.’
‘And I’ve been told that you were unhappy at the news.’
Woodford scowled. ‘Someone has been telling tales again, has she?’
‘Is it true?’
‘It’s nonsense, Inspector. Why should I be unhappy about anything that helps you in your investigation? I was pleasantly shocked, that’s all. Miss Hope has obviously misinterpreted my reaction.’
‘You do leave yourself open to misinterpretation at times,’ said Colbeck, archly. ‘What do you suppose is in the diary?’
‘I have no idea and no real interest.’
‘Not even when it contains information about you?’
Woodford’s scowl darkened. ‘What sort of information?’
‘It’s not entirely to your credit, sir.’
‘Don’t pay too much heed to what Joel wrote. He was always trying to find fault with me. I put it down to the fact that I applied for the job at the same time as him and he resented the competition. Take anything he says with a pinch of salt, Inspector.’
‘I thought you claimed that you were good friends.’
‘We were — but we also had our differences.’
‘Tell me about them, Mr Woodford.’
‘I don’t want to bother you with trivialities.’
‘I wouldn’t describe the retention of your post here as a triviality,’ said Colbeck, ‘because that’s what was entailed. For reasons I need hardly recall, it was more than possible for Mr Heygate to have you dismissed. The diary makes that crystal clear. He spared you that fate.’
‘Joel is dead,’ said Woodford, testily. ‘Let his diary die with him.’
‘How can I ignore the diary when it will lead us to his killer?’
‘You already
